Do You Take Requests?
by CRichwine
Summary: Karen was walking through the park one day, desperate for a story idea, when she noticed a man, sitting in the grass by a tree, strumming on the guitar. He looked battered and tired, and there were dog tags around his neck. Intrigued, she wandered up to him. Wary, he watched her approach. Before she could open her mouth, he blurted, "I don't take any friggin' requests, ma'am."
1. Commercially Interesting

Karen sighed as she trudged through the park, following the gray pathway that cut through the sea of grass, a beautiful shade of green. Even the scenery wasn't enough to make her feel less anxious.

Or determined.

She had a deadline, tomorrow night, and no story. Nothing. None of her article ideas worked out, and if she couldn't find a new one, she'd be in big trouble. She was the newbie reporter, and this was one of her first real chances at getting to the top. Getting into a position where people would read her stories, and she'd write them about the big problems, and speak out against things, and she'd help people.

But not if she couldn't find a story.

No, if she couldn't find a story, it would be disappointed looks, and a rush to fill the gap, and it would honestly, probably be her last serious chance at an article.

But she couldn't let that happen. No, she was going to find a story if she had to run herself into the ground doing it.

As she walked, rounding a corner, she heard a rhythmic strumming that pushed her thoughts to the back-burner, and she stopped dead, frowning. It was a lovely sound, a guitar being played, sad, somehow.

Karen made a 360 turn to try and locate where the sound was coming from, and she spotted him. Sitting underneath a tree to the left. He wasn't too far away, and from what she could see, he looked tired, worn out. There were dog tags around his neck, and he wore all black, aside from the skull print on his shirt. It was faded, the white chipping away.

The reporter's energy flooded back in seconds. This could be it, her story. It might not be anything big, but it could be enough to keep her afloat until the next issue.

She stepped into the grass, wandering over, heart beating fast as she planned her approach. Ask him what he was playing, introduce herself, ask if he'd mind being written about? And ask, of course, about the dog tags.

Those could make or break it, decide whether this story would be about a tired but commercially unappealing man wearing tags, or the completely marketable story of a tragic veteran.

Karen hated thinking of people in this way, but, unfortunately, she had to. If she wanted to keep her job that is.

As she approached, the man kept playing as if he didn't notice her, but he did. His shoulders shifted slightly, so now he looked tense and wary, as if he were trying to fold into himself and disappear. It was also made obvious by the fact that he glanced up at her every couple of seconds.

Karen stopped right in front of him and put on her most charming smile. The man looked up at her. The smile didn't seem to do much.

"Hi!" She said cheerfully. "What are you playing?"

He kept looking at her. She was very uncomfortable, but not in the "this man is a creeper" sort of way. No, it was more of a "this man is potentially dangerous and may not hesitate to kill me" sort of way.

But she really needed a story.

"Uh, so, I was wondering-"

"I don't do any friggin' requests, ma'am."

Karen blinked for a moment, surprised by his simultaneous bluntness and politeness. His voice was gruff and irritated. Quickly, she realized that the glare she had been receiving earlier had been out of agitation of other passerby interrupting his guitar playing.

"I wasn't asking about a request."

"Oh." The man blinked. He looked down, almost ashamedly, and sniffed a bit. "So why're you here?"

"Well, I'm Karen Page, journalist for the New York Bulletin. I was wondering if you would let me write an article about you?"

He squinted in a way that was almost adorable, like a small child would in confusion.

"Why me?"

"Oh, well, I just thought that an article about someone like you might be interesting!" Karen immediately regretted her stupid choice of words and prepared for the man to go off on her.

To her surprise, he smiled, and his smile definitely was adorable. His lips curved upwards into a sort of u-shape, almost like he was trying to hold his smile back. It didn't quite meet his eyes, though, which glittered with a teasing light.

"Someone like me?"

"Uh, well, I meant...uh, just, you, know, the dog tags and, uh..."

"Marine. They're a reminder."

Karen nodded and stood awkwardly. He didn't seem to be elaborating, as he went back to strumming on his guitar.

As she stood there, she noticed a light layer of grime that covered the man's skin. If it was what she thought, this could be a new angle. Maybe...

She had barely opened her mouth, however, when the man said, "I'm not homeless, either. Sorry, ma'am, but there ain't much of a story here."

Karen sighed in frustration as he destroyed her last idea. That was it. The Marine angle could've worked, but he obviously wasn't opening up about it.

But...

She needed that story.

"Sir, would you just consider an interview? Something? I...I have a deadline for tomorrow and you're my only shot at any sort of story." She confessed. "Please, sir?"

The man smiled again, glancing up again. "Ah, so I'm a commercial interest?"

Karen nodded apologetically, and the man stopped strumming his guitar and sighed, running a hand over his face.

"Sure. Why not? Sit down. Ask away."


	2. Next Question

Karen gaped at the man for a moment. "Really?"

That hadn't been the answer she had expected. Huh. Maybe she would have a story after all.

"Sure." The man said. "Don't have nothin' better to do, y'know? Might as well help someone out."

He was back to strumming the guitar now, and the tune felt familiar, itching in the back of her brain, but she couldn't identify it.

Karen smiled at him, pushing a string of her blond hair behind her ear. "Uh, well, would you like to have the interview here, or is there somewhere else you'd prefer?"

The man dropped his hand from his guitar and contemplated for a moment before looking back up at Karen. "D'you like coffee?"

"Sure, yeah."

"Alright. There's a diner a block or two from here."

Karen nodded, as she'd seen it before, and waited for the man to pack up his guitar and stand. "M'name's Frank, by the way. Frank Castle."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Mr. Castle." The two started down the pathway in the direction of the diner. The tips of Frank's ears turned pink at that, and he shook his head a bit.

"Uh, just Frank is fine, you know?" He muttered in his raspy, quiet voice.

Karen nodded. "Frank it is, then."

It was amazing, Karen decided, what you could learn about a person by their body language. You could learn more by that than by their words, more often than not, and that was certainly the case with Frank. Mostly because he barely ever spoke.

For the entirety of the eight minutes it took to get to the diner and take their seats, Frank didn't say a word. Occasionally he would grunt or something in response to a comment that Karen would make. Other than that, he was silent, but his body spoke volumes.

His shoulders were tenser than a person's would normally be, and he held himself stiffly upright, which she assumed was due to his military background. But his shoulders, they were tense for a different reason. She knew because while his posture indicated his strength and power, his broad shoulders gave the impression of a caged animal, like his fight or flight instincts were constantly moments from being set off.

Because of this, and the constant darting of his eyes, Karen held herself as comfortably and calmly as she could, using a level voice anytime she spoke, commenting about the weather or her paper's deadlines. She thought that maybe if she were calm, he would calm. It didn't have much of an effect, though.

She could see that Frank wasn't trying to be rude. He kept eye contact when she spoke and kept himself engaged, albeit silent.

Frank, she decided, was interesting. Although she supposed she'd already decided that, or she wouldn't have zeroed in on him as her story idea.

The next thing she learned about him, once they'd arrived at the diner and had seated themselves in a booth, was that Frank Castle enjoyed black coffee.

When the waitress had strolled over, asking what they would like, to which Frank responded with a simple, "Coffee, ma'am." Karen ordered in kind, but with the addition of a request for coffee creamer, as well.

"So, any reason you like this particular booth?" Karen asked, to make small talk once the waitress had walked off. She had pulled out her notebook and pen, organizing her tools and her thoughts.

Frank had been the one to choose their seats, obviously having been here before. Karen knew the place in passing alone, as she had never been inside. Frank immediately took the lead once they'd entered the restaurant, muttering a, "I like to sit over here." before leading her over to the booth.

Frank shrugged in response to her question, alternately looking at the table, out the window, and at her. That was another thing she'd noticed about him. He could maintain eye contact extremely well, but seemed uncomfortable just... looking at others. Almost as if he weren't sure if he was allowed to.

"I just sort of sat here, I guess, when I came here for the first time, you know?" His fingers tapped against the table lightly. "It's farther from the busiest spots, by the door."

Karen nodded. She was ready to begin now. "Do you mind if I record the interview? I'll still take some notes, but it'll help me out later, if you're comfortable with it."

Another shrug. Then a nod. Karen smiled at him, pulling her recorder out, pressing the record button and placing it in the middle of the table.

"Great! Alright, let's begin."

Holding her notebook and pen, she leaned forward. It was her 'writing stance', as her boss, Ellison called it.

"So, let's start with something easy. What, uh, what song were you playing, in the park?"

Frank smirked a bit. "No offense, ma'am, but, uh, you couldn't a asked me that in the park?"

Karen rolled her eyes. "Well, I was just thinking that I could start the article with where I saw you and what you were playing, but I guess that's not happening because you are, apparently, incapable of answering a question head-on." Her voice was obviously teasing, and she had supposed that Frank wouldn't mind a bit of ribbing (well, hoped, really, or she'd have just pissed off her new acquaintance), and his response confirmed her supposition.

Frank grinned, his cute smile that looked like he was suppressing it, and looked down at the table.

The waitress was back with the coffee and a small jug of creamer, and after Frank thanked her for it, he turned back to Karen.

"The song is American Pie. It's not as recognizable without the lyrics, but, uh, I've been working on mastering it. It was my...my daughter's favorite song."

She knew that song. Karen's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, you have a-" She clamped her mouth shut suddenly as she processed his new demeanor, shoulders more hunched, eyes downward, and of course, the suffocating weight of the word 'was'.

"I'm sorry for your loss." She murmured, mentally punching herself for her slip-up, at least grateful that she'd sort of caught it.

Frank just nodded and took a heavy drink from his coffee cup, gaze focused on a grease spot on the table.

"Um, if you don't mind me asking...what happened to her? How is your family, uh, dealing with it?" Her voice trailed off as she continued, immediately regretting the question.

Frank finally glanced up at her, eyes dark, but only with sadness, not anger at her insensitive probing.

"They're, uh, they're gone. Next question."

"Oh. Oh, oh my God. I'm so sorry."

Frank shrugged, sniffing a bit. "You didn't know."

"Still, I should've..." Her voice trailed off again, unsure of what to say.

Frank Castle's black eyes met hers.

"Next question, ma'am," he muttered, the raw pain in his eyes so deep Karen thought she might drown in it, and she looked away. "Please."


	3. Mama Told Me

The rest of the interview, Karen managed to skirt around any unsafe topics, but there was still an awkward air throughout the whole thing. After all, she couldn't take back what had been said.

At least, she thought, he was nice enough. And I got a story.

She spent the next couple of hours putting it together, deciding how it should be until it was as perfect as it could get. It was a nice filler article, and she was proud of it. And all the while, she did her best to make it about Frank Castle. Frank, not the ex-Marine who plays the guitar because he's sad. Frank, who plays the guitar to honor his dead family and keep the nightmares at bay. Frank, who enjoys black coffee and calls women "ma'am" and barely talks but always listens.

He'd already learned the favorite songs of his wife and son, he'd told her. Or at least, their favorites on the guitar. Simple Man and one she'd never heard of, Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport, respectively. Helped him keep track of things, he claimed, Remember them. Frank denied having PTSD, but Karen wasn't so sure, based on his fuzzy memories and her basic understanding of his depression and anxiety. She didn't put her doubts in the article. It wasn't her place to make assumptions.

But if she was being honest, he probably did. Whether from the deaths of his family or from combat, particularly a wound he had suffered in his last tour, a bullet to the head, or both. Frank had told her about the head wound in response to her question of an "interesting experience" from his Marine days. It had been an interesting answer, of course, and had certainly served its purpose of dragging Karen's attention from her thoughts of his PTSD, but still...

she wondered if he'd ever be honest with himself. Did he ever doubt his confidence in his mental state? Did he ever wonder if, maybe, he could get some help if he would just admit it?

* * *

Frank sat hunched over in his sorry excuse for an apartment, resting on the edge of his "kitchen" chair.

His guitar was tucked safely under his bed, where he usually placed it when he's not playing, and as he sat, he wondered if he was going to eat today or not. His stomach says no, like it normally does, but his brain, grudgingly, admits that yeah, he should probably try and eat. It's been a while. Nearly two days.

He's gone longer without food, though. Some days and weeks, it's just harder. Some days he sits in the same place for hours and just forgets. Forgets to eat, forgets to drink, forgets that he shouldn't forget because if he does then he might turn around and find that he's lost them.

Lost in the memories, in the chords, in the screams, in the confusion.

Confusion.

Like why he can remember exactly what Maria and Lisa and Frank Jr. were wearing that day, but he couldn't remember a damn thing about what they'd all had for breakfast. In fact, he remembers a lot of nothing from that day except for It. As if after It happened, the world had stopped spinning. As if everything stopped for the rest of that one day, almost like a moment of silence. Stopping it all to bow its head at the aftermath.

And the world had forgotten to lift its head again, or maybe it didn't want to, maybe it hadn't mourned enough, and so Frank was left in the dark for a long time. Finally, the world had started spinning again, and Frank could remember. Mostly. Sometimes he'd forget little things, like trips to the grocers or people's names, certain bits of certain songs. In the beginning, he'd forget whole days.

There's a lot of nothing in his brain.

Frank knows the real reason why there's so much nothing, but he doesn't acknowledge it. He's fully aware of his mental state. He knows how much confidence he has in its stability.

Not a damn bit. And he never doubts that that's the amount of stability he has.

There's a lot of nothing in Frank's brain, and there's no denying it.

But there's still too much something because he still sees his dead family in his apartment at night, and he still has to play the guitar to try and cover up the screaming.

Some days he wonders if he's already lost them to the rotting facsimiles that watch him sleep.

On those days, he doesn't play. On those days, he curls up on his bed, and finally, finally, because he forgets sometimes that he's allowed to be sad, because he doesn't have any kids to be strong for anymore, and remembering that is the last straw for him until, finally, he cries until his eyes feel like they're bleeding.

And he hates himself for it.

Today isn't one of those days. Today is confusion, stirred up memories from a pretty woman named...

Karen. Her name is Karen.

He hadn't forgotten her yet.

Today is nodding off to sleep in his chair as Maria whispers in his ear, the lyrics to her favorite song, and it's one of the better days. On the better days, it's really Maria, not her twin with a bullet in every other piece of her flesh.

As he nods off, worn down from his interview, she sings him to sleep.

sleep.

Sleepyhead.

Frank's eyes close.

Mama told me, when I was young...

"Come sit beside me...my only son..." Frank whispers with her, voice cracked and rough. Not like Maria's. Maria's voice could rival a choir of angels.

Maybe it is one.

He can't really remember.


	4. Blisters

The next time Frank and Karen meet, they're in the park again. It was a Saturday, one of Karen's days off. She came to the park on the off-chance Frank would be there again (and if he wasn't, it was a beautiful park), and Frank was there because he had nothing better to do than to visit his favorite haunt and play rendition after rendition of Simple Man and another of Maria's favorites, a Metallica song that switched sounds halfway through and was, in Frank's opinion, way too damn long.

The same path, same tree, same intense look on Frank's face as he strummed the instrument laying across his legs. Karen smiled at him, a bit sad, as she watched him go through his motions.

As she approached, Frank's shoulders twitched. As far as she could tell, he didn't notice her. He was wrapped up in the music, looking for all the world as if he were being accosted by the notes he sent floating through the air, his face and posture so tight and aggravated.

Frank was playing a different song, and once she stopped in front of him, he finally looked up. He squinted at her for a moment before giving her a small smile.

"Karen." It wasn't a question. Just a statement, like he had to confirm that she was there.

"Yup. What, no "ma'am" this time?" She teased. Frank rolled his eyes and smiled a little wider.

"May I sit down?"

Frank gestured to his left side with a muttered, "'Course." and scooted over a bit to give her more room.

"What're you doing here?"

"Day off."

Frank nodded, hands fidgeting with the strings of the guitar again. He had stopped momentarily when Karen had appeared.

"So...what song is it this time?" Karen asked to break the silence. It didn't bother her too much, but it looked like it was crushing Frank, who seemed stuck between trying to find something to talk about and not really wanting to speak. She figured that finding a topic herself would ease some of that burden, at least.

"Um, One. Another of Maria's favorites, y'know?"

Karen raised an eyebrow. "Metallica?"

"Yeah. She, uh, she liked this one but said it made her sad, see? Said it reminded her too much of all the stuff she worried about when I was deployed, y'know, about what might happen to me. But she loved the flow of the song."

His companion nodded, a small frown tugging at the edges of her lips. He seemed so...lost all the time, so sad. It hurt seeing people like that, especially when she knew them.

Frank chuckled a bit. "Personally, I thought it was, uh, too long. And I didn't want her listenin' to stuff that made her sad, y'know? 'Cause then I'd have to see her sad. And seeing her like that? Honestly, it hurt more than getting shot, which I can, uh, tell from experience."

The two smiled at each other, small and sad.

"But, uh," Frank continued, clearing his throat. "I heard this through her headphones the night before..."

Karen laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. "This isn't another interview, Frank. You don't have to talk if you don't want to. And you don't have to explain yourself if it's too much."

Frank gave her a thankful look, eyes dark. Fingers fidgeted with the strings of the guitar.

"Any particular reason you visit me on your day off, ma'am?" He asks, probably to change the subject. "Y'know, seeing as I'm not yer guinea pig anymore."

Karen rolled her eyes at his comment. "I just wanted to see you some more. You're good company, Frank, believe it or not. You are." She added when Frank snorted. "I wanted to see if you wanted to be friends, you know? Hang out sometime, or something."

Frank looked at her, and the incredulity in his eyes broke her heart. "You serious, ma'am?"

"Of course!"

Frank smiled again, looking at the grass beneath them. His fingers stopped fidgeting with the guitar. "Shoulda traded numbers or somethin' last time, so you didn't have to come looking for me." Karen assured him that it wasn't any particular trouble, and that she had needed the walk anyways. Frank honestly doubted that, as her long legs were taut with sinewy muscle. Not enough to suggest she regularly worked out, but enough to show that she was plenty active.

Not that he was looking in the direction of her (very) long legs, crossed beneath her pretty blue skirt that fell halfway past her calves.

Of course not.

"We could trade numbers, or something, now, if you'd like." Karen offered, and Frank agreed, setting aside the instrument laying across his legs for a few minutes as they both took out their cell phones and swapped them. Karen giggled a bit when she saw his flip phone, and he threw her a playful scowl. It wasn't like he needed anything more than a flip phone, anyways. Plus, it was cheap.

Once the numbers were swapped, they sat back against the tree in comfortable silence, Frank's fingers strumming the guitar strings in a small pattern. Karen noted that it was different from his fidgeting.

She had to ask him about it. But she didn't want to upset him.

Finally, working up the courage to tell him, she took a deep breath.

"Um, so I know this is kind of personal, but I'm only asking because I think I know someone who can help?"

Frank turned to her, eyebrow raised. Fingers stopped, but not fidgeting.

"Uh...If you aren't, um, already participating in a therapy group...?"

Fingers fidgeting. Karen sped through.

"Maybe-you-would-consider-this-one-group-thing-for-people-who-have-gone-through-trauma-that's-run-by-my-friend?"

Frank stared at her, eyes cold. Fingers fidgeting. Karen fidgeted with her skirt.

Frank tried not to feel hurt. She jut wanted to help. But he didn't need help.

That's what he'd told Curt, too. The war in the back of his brain seemed to contradict that statement, so he altered it. He didn't want help.

Right?

Right?

He cleared his throat, breaking eye contact. "Uh, I'll...think about it."

Karen smiled, relief glowing through the cracks. "Oh, really? That's, that's good! The next meeting is Tuesday. It's every week, at 4:30. Saint Patrick's Cathedral."

Frank's eyebrows shot up a bit, as he recognized the name. Curt's soldier support group had been hosted there for a while, but Frank was pretty sure it had changed a while ago.

"Oh, and, uh, my friend Matt, who runs it, he's blind, so...just FYI."

He nodded at Karen. Fingers fidgeting. Awkward silence.

"Want to learn how to play the first few chords of One, ma'am?"

Karen glanced at Frank in delighted surprise, and answered with an affirmative. The two scooted closer, Frank situating the guitar so Karen could hold it, but Frank could still guide her when necessary.

Phantoms tingle across his skin as he remembers doing this with his kids and wife. He pushes them down and focuses on the moment, forcing the gunshots and the screaming and the anger to the backburner, like he learned to a long time ago.

Like he had to, to avoid going completely insane.

They sit like that for around an hour, talking and laughing and playing the guitar. Karen fumbles quite a bit, but it turns out that she can sing very well, so it turns into Frank guiding her fingers across the strings, playing more than she is, as she sings along to the songs, looking up certain lyrics on her phone. Frank's chest is tight with happiness for the first time in a while.

When she leaves, Frank decides he really will look into that therapy thing. He can always leave if he doesn't like it, he supposes.

The next morning, Frank jolts awake on his stiff mattress, Maria's screeches echoing in his head, and he can still hear her accusing him of being unfaithful, see her pouring blood onto the floor, the blankets, and when Karen wakes up her fingerstips are covered in blisters.

Notes:

You will notice me throw bits of canon out the window every now and then. Like with Curt's support group being at Matt's church for a while. get used to it! Another canon out the window thing I've done is keep the accident that blinded Matt, but left out the enhanced senses. So he's NLP, without super senses. A "normal" completely blind person, if you'll pardon the term.


End file.
